Gone to Ground , livre ebook

Gone to Ground
A Detective Kay Hunter crime thriller


Rachel Amphlett
Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Amphlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55


Afterword
One

Lee Temple let the carbon-framed bicycle coast to a slower speed, turning his ankles outwards to release his shoe cleats from the pedals as the tyres met the rough surface.
He braked next to one of the other riders, noting the look of annoyance that flitted across Nigel Simpson’s face.
‘Puncture?’
‘Second one this week,’ said Nigel. ‘At this rate, this tyre is going to be shredded.’
‘Have you got a spare tube?’
‘Yes, thanks. It’s a pain, that’s all.’
Lee emitted a noncommittal grunt, then glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the group pulled into the lay-by.
The group of four men had started their cycling club eight months ago, and he had been surprised at how fast his fitness levels had improved. Considering that the idea had been first broached over a pint in their local pub one night, they had taken to the new pastime with enthusiasm, much to the amusement of their wives who had given them three months at most before they grew bored.
Over time, they had learned where the best cafés were, and Lee salivated at the thought of the sausage roll he intended to devour at their favourite spot on the other side of Boughton Monchelsea. Not that he would tell his wife – she thought the bowl of cereal he had consumed an hour before would be enough to satiate his appetite and keep his diet on track.
The ride had started well – the route was a favourite one, and perfect for a summer Sunday morning. They had avoided the busy traffic through Maidstone, meeting up at six-thirty when the air was still cool, having set off from West Farleigh. Their route had seen them leave the busy town centre and follow the road south towards Langley before turning west along a quiet country lane.
‘How’s that new carbon frame holding up?’
He flinched at the heavy hand on his shoulder and forced a smile.
Paul Banks was a heavyset man and unaware of his own strength. Lee often thought that the man should be playing rugby, rather than trying to perch on a lightweight bicycle frame, but he never seemed to have any trouble keeping up with the group.
‘Yeah, good. I can really notice the difference,’ Lee said, failing to keep the sense of pride out of his voice.
‘Maybe now Heather will see it was worth the money.’
‘She will, once I’ve sold the golf clubs to pay for it.’
Paul laughed, slapped him on the shoulder once more, and wheeled his bike across to where the other men were conversing.
The golf clubs were the residual evidence of the last attempt the group had had at getting fit.
Lee’s interest in cycling had been piqued years before, when the initial stage of the Tour de France had passed through the county. When he had suggested it to the others, they’d made disparaging remarks about tight Lycra and laughed it off, but once he’d presented them with enough evidence to suggest it would keep them fit and give them a good excuse to get out of the house for a few hours on a Sunday morning, they had soon joined him.
Now, they all looked forward to the weekly event and today was no different.
He removed his sunglasses and wiped at them with a corner of his cycling jersey, squinting against the bright sunlight that crested the hedgerow beyond. Rarely used by heavy vehicles, the lane was awash with the sound of birdsong.
He glanced back at Nigel, who now had the front wheel of his bike on the ground while he wedged tyre levers over the rim. Paul had crouched down to help him, and it looked like they were going to be there for at least another ten minutes or so.
A sudden urge to piss created an ache in his abdomen and, tucking his sunglasses over the collar of his jersey, he walked away from the group.
‘Where are you off to?’ said Tony White as he passed him.
The hospital orderly wore the latest aerodynamic helmet, and Lee noticed his reflection in the rainbow-coloured lenses of the other man’s sunglasses.
‘Need to take a leak.’
The other man grinned. ‘Pit stop. Might as well make the most of it.’
‘Exactly.’
Lee wandered over to the far side of the lay-by, then noticed the discarded work boot on the verge next to the road.
He had always wondered why you only ever saw one single boot at the side of the road, and not two. His childhood imagination had envisaged a man walking around with only one boot, at a loss as to what had happened to the other.
Paul’s voice reached him at the same time he drew level with the footwear.
‘Piss in it!’
Lee chuckled under his breath and shook his head.
‘Go on. Dare you,’ called Tony.
A bluebottle fly landed on his cheek, and he waved it away as a barrage of laughter carried across from the other men.
Then he blinked and shook his head, bile rising in his throat.
He stared for a moment, the others’ jeers fading into a blur of white noise. A car swept past, its motion rocking his body as he stood, arms by his side, trying to comprehend why it was here, who it belonged to, and what he should do.
At last, his brain processed what his eyes were taking in.
A severed foot, cut off at the ankle.
A pool of congealed blood pulsated with flies that buzzed around the torn laces of the leather upper of the work boot.
He took a step back, his anguished cry silencing the others.
His heart racing, he twisted his ankle as he turned away, his shoe cleats slipping across the uneven surface, before he limped to the hedgerow and threw up his meagre breakfast.
Two

Detective Inspector Kay Hunter eased open the passenger door of the pool vehicle and surveyed the scene before her.
She’d received a call from Detective Chief Inspector Devon Sharp as she and her partner, Adam, had been having a lazy weekend brunch on the patio overlooking their garden on the outskirts of Maidstone.
‘This is exactly the sort of sensationalist story we don’t need on the front page of the newspapers,’ he said. ‘I want you to lead this one – Barnes can be your deputy SIO, given that we still haven’t got a new detective sergeant assigned to the team. I’ll have him pick you up as soon as possible.’
Kay had sensed the familiar spike of an adrenalin rush caused by the prospect of a new investigation.
She had to give the newly promoted DCI credit, too. Since her promotion to DI, Sharp had ensured that she got the opportunity to work on a number of high profile investigations in between her management obligations.
Detective Constable Ian Barnes had turned up on her doorstep twenty-five minutes after Sharp ended his phone call.
Kay enjoyed working with Barnes. In his late forties, he possessed a humour and fortitude that had been a welcome tonic to the dark crimes they were often faced with.
Now, standing beside their vehicle as she peered up the lane to where a strip of crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, she turned to him as he slammed the driver’s door shut and joined her.
A little taller than Kay, he had pale brown hair that had turned to grey at his temples, and much to his consternation, he had started to wear reading glasses.
‘Still glad to be out of the office?’ he said as they watched the scene-of-crime officers working in the lay-by.
‘Shame about the circumstances,’ she said, and pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. She straightened her shoulders. ‘All right. Let’s go and find out what’s going on.’
She made her way up the sloping gradient of the lane, nodding to the traffic officers who kept passing motorists from gawking at the scene and ensured any passing traffic remained at a constant low speed to avoid injury to the emergency responders attending the site.
The crime scene investigation team had erected a screen between the lane and where they worked, while two uniformed officers stood on the perimeter of the crime scene tape to ward off any nosy passers-by. A female uniformed officer and her colleague had corralled a group of garishly-clothed cyclists and glanced up as Kay and Barnes approached.
Kay relaxed as she recognised the familiar face. Debbie West had been a police constable since her early twenties, and Kay held high hopes for the woman. She was one of the most meticulous officers Kay knew and could be relied upon to manage a tight crime scene.
‘Morning, Inspector.’
‘Morning. What’s the latest?’
Debbie gestured to her colleague, who shepherded the cyclists away from the crime scene tape and continued to speak with the